Chapter Eight
Sarah
Three months had passed since the day I found Henry Moss’s body in his office, and I still had nightmares about it.
The police told me the medical examiner said it happened the day before, around five in the evening. That meant that someone came into the office at the end of the workday and attacked him.
What I didn’t notice at the time, due to the shock of finding his bloody body, was that the office was wrecked. A lamp was broken, the clutter that was always on his desk was scattered all over the floor, and his chair was overturned. It all indicated a struggle, and I’d imagined what his final moments must have been like countless times.
In my mind, faceless men shoved and hit him, demanding money, and he was terrified. Then the knife was driven into his chest, and the men left him on the floor to die alone.
Of course, I didn’t know if that was what happened, but it didn’t stop my imagination from running wild, especially at night, when I lay in bed in the darkness with nothing to distract me from the horror of it all.
There was no putting it behind me. I couldn’t do that even if I tried because I still had to attend the trial, which was supposed to start today.
The police arrested a group of men within a week of Mr. Moss’s death, and I was told they definitelyhad the right people. The detective in charge of the case, Killian Johnson, said it wasthe act of a criminal organization, which scared the hell out of me because I was expected to testify against these people.
The leader of the criminals responsible for Mr. Moss’s death was being tried first, charged with conspiracy and enterprise corruption rather than the killing itself and the district attorney seemed almost excited about the whole thing, as if putting away a big fish like this would make his career. And maybe it would, but it felt disrespectful to Mr. Moss’s memory to me.
That was what I cared about. I wanted to see the person or people who killed him put away. I wanted justice.
Even if that meant facing some scary guy who was the head of the gang or mafia or whatever it was that came after Mr. Moss. Even if he was somehow still free on bail. I was going to respond honestly to all of the lawyers’ questions and hope I could finally put all of this ugliness behind me.
The district attorney informed me that the men on trial were the ones Mr. Moss owed money to. Apparently, a review of his finances led them to the conclusion that he was murdered because of a substantial amount of money he borrowed.
That meant that the men I saw in his office were the likely culprits. Even though I was told the leader was not among them, the fact that they could directly tie him to the men who threatened Mr. Moss—through money, phone records, and witness statements—made my testimony key to the trial. So, I left my daughter at home with my mother and came to tell my story.
The courthouse was a granite building was on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, not far from the Brooklyn Bridge. I walked up broad stone steps and past columns along the front of the building. Inside, I walked on polished marble beneath adomed ceiling, following signs on the walls in the form of bronze plaques that told me where to go to get to the courtroom where I was expected.
Benches lined the hallways, and I didn’t make eye contact with anyone sitting on them. I was too nervous and lost in my own thoughts to let myself get distracted by the people around me.
Coming to the tall double doors of the courtroom, I paused, taking a deep breath. The smell of wood polish reached me, and the sterile tang of it helped to ground me before I opened the doors and quietly entered the courtroom.
I glanced around, taking in the woodwork and the high, vaulted ceiling. On either side of me was seating, and directly ahead of me was the judge’s bench. On that elevated seat of power sat a man in a black robe.
I’d never been in a courtroom before, let alone taken part in a trial so I listened raptly as the DA spoke. He rounded off his speech with, “Henry Moss didn’t deserve to die that way, but it doesn’t matter to people like Mr. Gorsky. Men like him think they are above the law. But he needs to learn that he’snot.This case is about the criminal enterprise he led and the violence that followed in its wake.We must send a message to the people in this city who participate in organized crime—we won’t stand for it!”
There was a murmur of conversation coming from across the aisle, and I glanced over to see two men sitting together, their heads close together. They were dressed in dark clothes and scowling, and I was reminded of the men I saw intimidating Mr. Moss that day at the office. These men held themselves the same way, their sharp eyes picking up everything.
When one of them looked my way, I quickly averted my eyes.
“We know New York City is plagued by criminal activity, and much of it comes from organizations such as the one the evidence will show Mr. Gorsky runs. This trial will demonstrate how that organization used threats, intimidation, and financial pressure to control its victims. The mafia thinks they can get away with whatever they want. Well, it’s time that we take a stand. I’m here to tell Mr. Gorsky and his Bratva that there is a limit to what we will tolerate. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will hear testimony that ties these defendants directly to the men who confronted Henry Moss before his death. We must stop the rampant crime occurring in the city.”
As he came to the end of his speech, I couldn’t help frowning. He’d barely mentioned Mr. Moss or laid out anything solid about the case. It sounded more like he was hitting certain talking points that would rile people up rather than laying out a legal argument. It felt more like he was making a political speech.
Worried, I started to pick at my fingernails, a bad habit I’d had since I was a kid anytime I felt anxious. My leg bounced and the woman sitting next to me sent an impatient look in my direction. I smiled apologetically and forced myself to sit still.
The judge told the defense attorney to make his opening statements, and for the first time since I entered the courtroom, I gave the defendant my full attention. When I arrived, I vaguely noted a broad back and dark hair, but I couldn’t see much more with the man facing away from me.
As his lawyer got up from the table, the defendant turned his head, and my lugs seized, my heart skipping a beat.
No.It couldn’t be him.
But it was. There was no doubt about it as he turned further, his dark eyes meeting mine directly.
I was looking at the man I slept with four years ago.
The father of my child was standing trial for orchestrating the events that led to my boss’s murder.